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Saturday, July 30, 2011
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Oh, yeah, we're back from China. Flickr photoset here (~340 pix):
Shorter flickr photo subset here (~120 pix) because nobody's going to look at the long one. Both have captions that narrate the trip somewhat. If things are too obscure in the short set, refer to the long one and see if that helps. Or comment and I'll explain at length. Really.
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Thursday, May 26, 2011
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Toon River Anthology, part 8
NO NAME*
[*in the Bandar tongue]
I was born to follow the proud destiny of my father
And his father, and his father, and all their fathers
All the way back to the first Phantom in 1536.
I trained rigorously for years, learning science,
Languages, literature, martial arts, armaments,
Just as my fathers had before me.
But our fathers could not teach us who to love,
Or teach a heart to weigh consequences,
And because my father followed his heart, rather than tradition,
I was not suitable for my own destiny. I was miscast.
Father seemed not to notice. Perhaps he was acting too,
Perhaps he was truly oblivious. I played my part.
He was pleased with me right up to the day of his death.
And then I did what I had to do. I looked around
And found another who could fill the role I couldn't,
And avenge my father's death.
I franchised my destiny. I gave my birthright to another
For the sake of the legend of the undying Phantom.
I found one, light-skinned, well-formed, strong, quick-thinking, ruthless.
Now his dynasty will continue the work my forefathers did.
Though I've grown fat and bald, I continue to advise him
Behind the scenes. It's best this way. After all,
Who could ever believe in the myth of the eternal Ghost
When confronted by an undersized half-Bandar
With a round head made to wear a lampshade?
originally published at the Comics Curmudgeon
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Friday, May 20, 2011
I was looking at a Mona Lisa book and thinking that she looks sort of green-ochre. I leafed through the volume, which has x-rays and infrared and just about every possible way of taking a picture (though I didn't notice antique copies of the picture, some of which tell us just when and how much the original was sawed down to fit a frame they had), but none of them corrected the colors. So I did, using Preview. Oddly enough, I got better flesh tones with this little freebie that comes with a Mac laptop than I could manage in Photoshop! After that, I used Photoshop to lighten the whites of the eyes. I never liked how they're the same color as everything else. I blame varnishes for that, and maybe the way Leonardo was always trying new substances for his pigments. Anyway, here she is...
Larger size available at my flickr page. Originally posted at my LJ.
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I was reminded today of a Superman episode where a clown goes bad (yeah, yeah, I know) and falls off of a roof. Superman gets there a minute too late, and the police fill him in on it. I always wanted to rewrite the cop’s speech:
“Yes, Superman. He was a clown who went bad. But I want to tell you: I’ve been a cop in this town for twenty years, and I never saw anything like it. He stood up on that roof, four stories above the street, and when he felt his balance going, he met the challenge, faced it like a true clown.And where were you, anyway, Man of Steel? Getting popcorn?
“His back was to the street. First he leaned in as far as he could, with his arms whirling like two windmills in a hurricane. Then he leaned back and those arms went even faster. Then his butt stuck out what seemed like a mile, and we could see he was going down.
“He went feet first! He went head first! He went butt first! He tried flapping his arms! He mimed like he was praying, on his knees and everything. He reached up and grabbed his hat and planted that tiny little thing back on his head. And it stayed! He pulled an itty-bitty umbrella out of somewhere and held it over himself until it turned inside out, and then he threw it away.
“Then he gave a big sigh. It was just as if you could hear what he was thinkin’. He shrugged his shoulders and looked sad and waved bye-bye. And he put on a brave little smile.
“And when he hit that street, he made the loudest HONK any of us ever heard. We were still clapping when you showed up.”
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Sunday, April 17, 2011
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
.
One of my favorite (if not my #1 favorite) American painters has left us. George Tooker, whose painstaking egg temperas showed us a sterile world of isolation and anxiety, lasted to the age of 90, somewhat secluded. A few years ago I knew he was still alive. For a while, I didn't know one way or the other: Schrödinger's Artist! He died today, March 29, 2011.
I first saw his painting, "The Subway" (top example) in the 70s and was fascinated by his creepy vision of a nightmare populated by strangers who didn't look happy about it either. On my first visit to New York City, I made a special trip to the Whitney to see it and was disappointed to learn that they didn't keep it on display most of the time. I bought a poster, though.
People in his paintings seem haunted. Like strangers on the street, they look at you (perhaps momentarily) with no joy or flicker of recognition. Each is isolated in his or her concerns. I wrote a paper on him for art history, almost thirty years ago, drawing on images from Raymond Chandler and dissecting "The Subway" on layers of clear plastic like animation cels.
He painted in the difficult medium of egg tempera, mixing his paints as he went along. He could make a mix last another day by putting it in the refrigerator. He was influenced by Reginald Marsh and Paul Cadmus. He and his lifetime partner, William Christopher, were active in the Civil Rights movement. I have a book about him, but I don't know an awful lot about him. Here is his self-portrait, from 1947:
More pictures can be found here..
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Saturday, March 05, 2011
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He sat at his table, dregs of Victory Hunny unlicked on his cheeks. He sat very still, not even brushing away a fat fly that came to inspect the glistening stickiness on his face. He tried to hum a hum, but all he could think of was “Three fours are fifteen.” And sometimes it came out “Three fours is fifteen,” and he didn’t know which was which. Owl came by with a Very Important Message about the Progress in the War Against Heffalumps and he listened attentively to it.
It didn’t matter. He knew that the Heffalumps would be defeated, just as he knew they would always be fighting them. It did not bother him a bit to hold both these thoughts fervently. He smiled slightly and hummed, “Three fours are fifteen.” He would do anything for Christopher Robin. He would give Eeyore over, just as Piglet had given him over, and for the same reason: love. The love of wonderful Christopher Robin, from whom all goodness flowed.
A tear twinkled from one eye and slowly tickled its way down his cheek. Winston Pooh was happy, happier than he’d ever thought possible. He was a Silly Old Bear.
[reprinted from Chunga 18]
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Saturday, January 22, 2011
pane chant .
Near the town's only graveyard, the dark mansion sits
Surrounded by wild-growing grass
And facing the street there are thirty-two windows
But one alone still has its glass.
It beams with warm pride at its less lucky mates
As it twinkles and shines all alone
And a sensitive soul might fancy it speaks
In a thin and self-satisfied tone:
"I made the right choices
I took the right steps
My present success is my own.
I've no one to thank
But my foresight and brains
For the fruits that my planning has grown.
I rely on no man
For my unbroken face
I earned what I have; I'm self-made!
I've nothing to mourn,
And I've nothing but scorn
For the ones who go whining for aid:
(snidely)
"'Someone should do something
Someone should step in
If only somebody would see
I did as I should
I helped where I could
And now someone else should help me!
I hereby declare
That this world is not fair
And it's wrong that the innocent pay.
Somebody must bail
They can't let me fail
We're in this together, I say!'"
With the winter approaching, a gang of young boys
Came biking by just before dark
And spying the window, they stopped where they were
And picked up some rocks for a lark.
"Watch my aim!" one boy shouted, as straight flew a stone
From a slingshot he kept in his coat
And it shattered the glass that sparkled alone
So no more did the last window gloat.
"No one could predict this!
I did all I could
And in justice,
I should be okay.
This murderous clod
Was a sheer act of God
And that's nothing for which I should pay.
It's a sad day indeed
When the innocent bleed
For something no one could foresee.
I need help, and soon!
I've not changed my tune
For heaven's sake, listen to me!
(plaintively)
"Someone should do something!
Someone should step in!
If only somebody would see
I did as I should
I helped where I could
And now someone else should help me!
I hereby declare
That this world is not fair
And it's wrong that the innocent pay!
Somebody must bail
They can't let me fail
We're in this together, I say!"
(It seemed thus to sing, by the light of the moon,
On the night that the fortunate pane changed his tune.)
---
©2011 by Kip Williams
No tune assigned
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Wednesday, January 05, 2011
Saturday, January 01, 2011
part 6
Even though Cora was friends with Blondie,
She used to ask me why I didn't just fire him
And let him stay fired. He didn't get much done,
And he took long lunches and he goofed off
At his desk all day long. Oh, he was honest
But I couldn't trust him with any important work,
So I fobbed off the clients I didn't care about on him,
And let him reorganize the stock room from time to time.
Some of the board members mentioned him in meetings,
With pointed references to 'Dead Wood' and such,
And one even hinted that those little bits of hair that stuck out
Bore some kind of resemblance to my own. He didn't last.
A man can stand for just so much. No, he wasn't my son,
But I made a promise to J.B. when he disinherited the boy
That he'd always have a job at J.C. Dithers and Company
As long as he lived. I kept that promise, hard as it was.
But I never promised I wouldn't kill him, and one day I did.
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